kisavika

⋆｡ wild at heart ｡⋆

[kisakisabby]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭

╭─── 𖤐 ───╮ kisa / vika ╰─── 𖤐 ───╯

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩 abt me

✶ kisa / vika ✶ fic writer ✶ professional delulu ✶ chronic daydreamer ✶ bipolar

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𖤐 i post abt — angst / slow burn / smut — fictional men > real life — poems — nerdy interests

𖤐

✧ requests open

✧ ao3 vihka

[kisakisabby]

unleashed

pairing(s): clark kent x fem!reader summary: you thought you’d have to be the one to guide him. you thought clark’s inexperience meant you’d be in control of his first time. you just didn't know that his "innocence" was the only thing holding back a level of power you can't even begin to comprehend. (or) how you tried to dominate smallville's "innocent nerd" only to be unraveled by a man who will fuck you until you forget how to breathe. wc: 6.5k content: 18+, smut, fluff, established relationship, virginity (clark), first time, size difference, nerd clark, shy reader, soft!dom, hidden strength, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, huge cock, p in v, deep stretching, belly bulge, overstimulation, vocal clark, shaking, rough/sweet mix. author's note: my first ever explicit fic (yay)! also, english isn't my first language, so pls forgive any mistakes! this fic is a direct continuation of this story, which covers their full date. however, it is not necessary to read the first part to understand this one.

The way to his house becomes a loose sequence in your head. You’re still a bit too lightheaded to walk in a perfectly straight line, but Clark doesn’t let you "fall" at any point. He just adjusts his hand on your waist whenever you lean too far to one side, as if he’s already mastered your rhythm in this tipsy version of you. And, worse, he seems to enjoy it—to be amused by it. You see it in the little things: a low laugh that escapes when you say something without a filter, a lingering gaze when you lose your train of thought but keep talking anyway.

By the time you reach his house, you’re already in "try to act normal" mode, a bit worried about making a good impression on Mr. and Mrs. Kent. You don’t want to ruin the "little miss perfect" image they’ve already formed of you. As soon as you step inside, you realize instantly the house is empty. Your body relaxes before you even think about it, your smile widens, and your mind starts spinning ideas that are getting even harder to contain. Clark notices right away.

“My parents aren't home today,” he says, as if it weren’t already obvious. He tries to sound casual, as if it's irrelevant, but you both know what it means. You don't bother hiding it. For a second, he just watches you, as if he’s reading you.

As you head down the hallway, you feel it clearly. His presence remains close, constant, but not overbearing, as if he’s decided to stay exactly where he already is. He guides you to the bathroom so you can shower. You’re no longer stumbling, nor do you find it hard to think. You just feel that courage and that hunger still burning inside you.

When the hot water hits your body, you relax completely. Your mind starts replaying tonight’s events, and you can’t help but smile like a 12-year-old schoolgirl with her first boyfriend. Clark enchants you, and getting to know this second side of him leaves you more curious than ever. Your imagination wanders; you close your eyes and let yourself create moments, running your hands over your body, imagining, longing for them to be his. You bite your lips as you run your hands along your waist, remembering when they were his hands instead of yours.

You wonder what he would do if he just let himself go, since he seems to harbor the same longing you do. Does he notice your tank tops the same way you caught him looking today? Has he already dreamed of you, without controlling where his mind leads him? In the shower, has he also let his thoughts go down this path, just as you are now? All these questions, added to the assumptions of how he would act if neither of you held back anymore, make you feel the heat pool between your thighs.

You know how long you’ve been wanting this, especially after neglecting your own needs for so long. You decide then that you won’t let this chance slip through your fingers, that you won't swallow your desires out of shyness once more, and that tonight, Clark will know what’s been filling your mind whenever he’s near you. Despite the alcohol, you’re still you, and just imagining yourself with this courage before him makes your knees weak. He’s always been the only person with whom you feel you can be yourself, without being self-conscious, without feeling so much shame. But just the idea of starting this makes your head spin.

You’re snapped out of these thoughts by a knock on the door.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” you say, a bit nervous, aware of your own vulnerability: completely naked and exposed. This time, you don’t cover yourself with the shower curtain, trying to move forward somehow, wearing a mask of confidence that’s easily unmasked when the clear flush on your cheeks is noticed. To your great disappointment, the innocent boy is standing there with one hand covering his eyes and the other holding a white towel.

"You forgot the towel" — he said, completely oblivious to the fact that he just ruined your whole plan. Or maybe not so oblivious. His voice came out strangely tense, too fast, as if he were trying to get in and out of there before his courage failed. Even covering his eyes, Clark seemed all too aware of your presence, the hot steam filling the bathroom, and the vulnerability of the situation.

He reached his arm toward the sink counter and left the towel there without looking directly at you. Still, you noticed the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard before turning away too quickly for someone who was supposedly calm. This pulled a small smile from you. Maybe he was more rattled than he wanted to show.

The door closed behind him, and you let out a low sigh before finally grabbing the towel. Water was still trickling down your skin as you dried yourself slowly. When you finished, you found the change of clothes Clark had left. Your smile appeared the moment you pulled on nothing but his shirt. Standing before the mirror, you watched the exaggeratedly loose fit of the fabric on your body. His scent was still there, and it provoked a warm, intimate sensation. You weren't exactly short, but dating someone nearly 6'3" made any piece of clothing look massive.

After that, you tried to put on the pajama pants. It was a disaster. As soon as you let go of the waistband, the pants slipped down your hips. A laugh escaped and, holding the fabric with one hand, you left the bathroom looking for him. As soon as Clark looked up, his expression changed immediately.

"I’ll look for something in my closet that fits you" — he says, his lips still curved in that crooked smile as he leads you to the bedroom. You walk in right behind him, still holding the pants that insist on slipping. Clark notices and lets out a low laugh, clearly trying to hide how funny he finds it. Then he looks at you again — this time for too long.

"By the way… you look lovely in that shirt." The comment makes your face heat up instantly.

"Clark…"

"I’m serious." And by the way he keeps looking at you, it’s hard to believe it’s just an innocent compliment. "I want you to keep it."

You already open your mouth to refuse, but Clark approaches before any word can come out. The quick kiss he leaves on your lips completely interrupts your protest. "The gift is more for me than it is for you" — he murmurs.

You try to hide your smile as he rumbles through the closet. Clark pulls out a pair of pants. Too big. Another. Even worse.

"How do you guys live like this?" — you ask, indignant, holding the pants that threaten to fall again. — "This is completely useless."

Clark laughs without even looking back. "Never thought much about it."

"Of course not. You’re nearly six-foot-three, anything stays up on you."

This pulls another laugh from him. After a few more frustrated attempts, Clark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe my mom has something that fits you better."

"No way!" The answer comes too fast. Just the idea of wearing Mrs. Kent’s clothes without her permission makes your shyness collapse.

"So what do you intend to wear?" The question hangs in the air. Clark holds your gaze, and you notice when his imagination slips for a second. The flush rising up his face gives it all away. An idea pops into your head; you go to the drawers and find a pair of his boxers.

"It’s literally just a pair of makeshift shorts" — you continue, amused by his state. — "Relax, Kent."

"I’m not nervous."

"You turned red."

"It’s hot in here."

You look around the room in silence before turning back to him. "Clark, it’s raining outside."

He finally laughs, rubbing his face. He turns the other way while he waits for you to change. "You're having a lot of fun with this, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little."

"All done" — you say, excitedly, opening your arms. Clark turns around cautiously. The moment his eyes land on you, his expression changes. There was something almost dangerously personal about seeing you wearing his clothes like that. You tilt your head as you notice the silence.

"What?" — you ask, amused.

"Nothing..." — he tries to answer, but the words scramble.

"Stop looking at me like that" — you murmur, starting to get embarrassed too.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m… I don’t know."

Clark laughs softly and steps closer. "You're beautiful." The simplicity of the answer makes your heart trip. "Do you have any idea how much you affect me?" — he asks quietly, almost as if the confession had escaped before he could stop it. Your heart trips inside your chest. For a second, you can only stare at him. And then it’s him who approaches this time.

His hand moves slowly to your face, his fingers sliding against your skin with a delicacy that makes your stomach flip. His thumb caresses your cheek before his hand stops at the nape of your neck, firm enough to keep you close. Then he kisses you. For real. Not hesitant like before. Not too careful. Deep. As if something inside him had finally given in.

You immediately feel the difference in the way he holds you. His breath mingles with yours while his fingers at the nape of your neck tighten slightly, pulling you closer. Your heart races, and Clark seems to feel it. Without really noticing, you start walking backward while he follows every move naturally, without breaking the kiss for a second. Until the back of your legs finds the bed. You sit on the edge, pulling him along without even thinking. Clark stops between your legs immediately. The kiss finally breaks for a moment, but only so he can look at you. And that look nearly finishes you. Hot. Surrendered. Completely lost.

His breathing is ragged again. You run your fingers along his jawline, and it seems to destroy the rest of the resistance that still existed. Clark goes back to kissing you immediately. More intense this time. More desperate. Now it’s your hands that grip behind his neck, fingers intertwining there as if wanting to ensure he won't back away. But he doesn't back away. On the contrary. Clark stays there, leaning over you, pressing you gently into the covers. His body so close to yours that now you can feel him against your thigh. You hear a low groan escape his lips.

The kiss slows down just enough for both of you to catch your breath. His forehead rests against yours for a moment. The silence between you gets heavy in a different way now. His hand stays on you, finally wandering over your body, while his eyes search for yours. You don't give him a break; you press your hands against his chest and, for a second, see a mix of fear and sadness in his eyes, worried that you were going to end this moment. But it’s the opposite. You move on top of him, fitting perfectly. Before he has a chance to do anything, your hips roll against him, pulling another sound from both of you.

Clark’s lungs seem to lock for a second. He lets his breath out slowly, a sound between surrender and relief. His hands now spread firm against your back and hips. Clark doesn’t look away; he watches the curve of your neck and the start of your collarbone revealed by the shirt’s collar. His jaw tenses.

"You have no idea" — he whispers, his voice vibrating so low you feel his chest against yours — "the effort I’m making not to break whatever exists between us right now."

"Don't hold back" — you murmur, your voice low but heavy with an urgency that seems to vibrate in the air. — "We’ve held back for long enough, Clark. I don't want caution anymore."

For a second, you expect him to pull you back. But instead, you feel his body stiffen under yours. His fingers now barely touch the fabric, hovering as if they were afraid to leave a mark. Seeing this retreat, something turns cold inside you.

"Clark?" — You start to pull away, doubt showing in your expression. — "What is it? If you... if you don't want to, or if you changed your mind, just say so."

"No!" — His response is immediate, almost desperate. He grips your arms with exaggerated delicacy. — "It’s not that. It’s never that. I want you more than anything else."

"Then what’s the problem?" — You shoot back, your voice rising a notch. — "Because it doesn't make sense. I’m here. You’re here. I want you and, by the way you were kissing me just now, you want me too."

Clark’s chest aches seeing that flash of hurt in your eyes. "Please…" His voice comes out raspy, almost like a plea. Before you can distance yourself, his hands close around your waist with a firmness you’ve never felt before. He pulls you back with an urgency that takes your breath away.

"Please, don't pull away from me" — he begs, the words coming out broken as he presses his forehead to yours. — "I can't stand to see that doubt on your face. I’d spend the rest of my life in the dark if it meant I’d never see you look at me as if I were capable of rejecting you."

When his lips find yours again, the heat is absolute. Clark’s hands, large and suddenly trembling, move up your thighs, pulling you so that the fit is total. "It’s not you. It was never you" — he murmurs against your mouth, never stopping his touch. — "I look at you and I feel like I’m holding the most precious and delicate thing the world has ever created. You’re so sweet, so…" He hesitates, letting out a heavy sigh while his body vibrates against yours. "If I truly give in, if I stop measuring every move… I won’t know how to be gentle. I won't know how to be slow. The fear of hurting you because of my selfishness is the only thing keeping me whole right now."

His hand moves up under the loose shirt, his skin meeting yours in a contrast that makes your spine arch. Clark lets out a low growl and tilts you back on the mattress. As he buries his face in your neck, his voice resonates against your skin: "You drive me so crazy I forget how to breathe," he admits in a whisper. His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below your ear, and his teeth graze there with a pressure that makes you let out a moan. — "It fills me with fear knowing I’m a second away from losing control of everything."

His hands now don't just touch; they claim. Clark’s muscular tension is almost solid, a contained force ready to explode at any touch of yours. When you feel his hip press against yours, firm and without the hesitation from before, it’s clear he’s finally stopped trying to just be the "good boy" from Smallville. You feel his weight — not just the physical, but the burden of years of restraint — crashing down on you. When he says he’s afraid of not knowing how to be slow, you don't back away. For the first time, you feel you need exactly that: someone who wants you with an intensity that defies logic. Your hands move up his broad shoulders, feeling muscles rigid as granite, and you pull him down.

"Then don't be," you breathe against his mouth, feeling the tremor that runs through his spine. "Don't be slow, Clark. Not with me. I'm not made of glass... and I'm not going anywhere."

The air in the room seems to vanish. This reassurance was the final snap of a dam breaking. Clark launches himself with the hunger of someone who has spent a lifetime fasting. You feel the pressure of his fingers in your flesh and a wave of electricity runs through your spine. Finally, that solid body is pressed against yours, much hotter and firmer than your imagination predicted. With an agility that makes your head spin, Clark wraps around your waist and, in a blur, lifts you into the air as if you weighed nothing. For a millisecond, gravity disappears before you are pressed against the mattress with an overwhelming firmness. The wooden bed lets out a dry creak, an audible protest under his strength.

Clark is between your legs now, arms stretched, one on each side of your head, supporting his own body as he looks down at you. You are blind with lust, nails dug into his back. His hands move down to the hem of the shirt, and the way he pulls it, almost tearing the fabric, makes you let out a husky laugh. His eyes are so dark the blue seems to have vanished.

"You have no idea," he growls against your skin, his mouth moving down to your bust, "how much I tried not to think of you this way. Every night."

It's your dream becoming real. Clark wants you with the same intensity and sees you with the same purity. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to regain a fragment of sanity.

"Look at me." His voice is no longer a whisper; it's a low command. "I need you to promise me something. Now."

You can barely breathe. He brings his face close to yours, forehead against yours. "I’m… I’m not like the others." He gives up on trying to explain and focuses on the urgency of the moment. "If at any point I weigh too much... if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, you tell me immediately. You stop me. Understood? I need to hear you say it."

You see the genuine fear in the depths of his eyes and, though you don't understand the full extent of what he fears, you agree, feeling his heart hammering against your palm.

"I promise, Clark."

The sound of your voice is the final trigger. His "filter" crumbles. Amidst the kisses, you slide your hands to the zipper of his pants, leaving him in only his boxers. It's impossible not to look, and even more impossible to avoid touching him. You love the sounds he makes, feeling him react to your touch. He holds you with an inevitable strength, pinning your wrists gently above your head against the pillow. There is no pain, only the feeling of being dominated by someone who could bend steel but uses that power to protect you. It’s ironic to remember how you spent the night testing the waters, thinking you’d have to be the experienced guide. Now, seeing the clarity with which he commands you, the realization finally hits. Clark starts to lose his excessive caution; the movements become fluid and decisive.

"I spent so many nights imagining this..." he confesses, his voice so thick it vibrates inside your chest. "I dreamed of your scent, of this heat... but reality is a coward compared to this. Nothing in my dreams came close to how warm you are."

How has he never done this before? How does he know exactly where it aches from wanting so much? Clark pulls back for a moment just to analyze the mess he’s left: flushed cheeks, red lips, panting breath, and a marked neck. Your hips writhe at the interruption and a moan escapes when he presses his fingers against the wet fabric of the boxers you're wearing. It’s exciting to see it soaking his underwear; the last barrier between you. You close your eyes, feeling vulnerable and desperate. Clark devours your gaze as he pulls the fabric, eliminating the final barrier. When he finds your intimacy, without warning, you let out a muffled cry. He spreads your moisture with an imperious sweetness.

"Look at me," he commands. "I want you to see how I'm looking at you. I want you to know I’ll never forget this sight. You’re perfect."

Clark is no longer the hesitant boy; he is an attentive observer, noting how your breath hitches and your pupils dilate. He circles with his thumb, driving you into a frenzy with a dexterity you never imagined he hid. He holds your thigh, opening it wider, exploring the emotional power of seeing how he affects you. Seeing that he is the only one capable of pulling these sounds from you gives him a new, silent confidence.

"Fuck, Clark... you're so good at this. I can't... Slow down, I don't want to finish too fast," you try to say, failing miserably.

"I need to feel you so much..." he confesses, his voice broken, almost in a sob, as if the effort to stay with just fingers were a torture.

Moved by a surge of audacity, you lock your hands on his shoulders and return the kisses hungrily, trying to dictate the pace. Clark relaxes his weight, allowing your exploration, but his body is like an immovable mountain. He lets out a heavy sigh, watching your attempt at control with the smile of someone who delights in your grit. You accept the most pleasurable defeat of your life. You are no longer the guide; you are the discovery.

"Then do it. Do whatever you want with me." It’s the only thing Clark needed to hear.

He gets rid of the last piece of clothing with trembling hands, an urgency bordering on desperation. Shame loses its importance the moment he reveals his member to you. You are only human; it’s impossible to hide the stare you give his cock. It’s large — you already imagined it was, wished it would match the rest of that massive body — but reality is better. It’s definitely bigger than you expected. For the first time, you see shyness on his face; the mischievous smile waning as he tries to look away.

Your hand moves down his abdomen, following the path to what you truly desire, but you don't wrap around it until he confirms with a nod. The man in front of you folds his arms on the bed, bringing his mouth to your chest. He sucks your nipples while trying to stifle his own sounds, but fails miserably. Your hand slides carefully down his thick cock, not out of care, but with the intention of returning the same torture. He definitely can't wait any longer.

He pulls away from your breasts and aligns himself with your entrance. The penis passes between your folds, pulling moans that make him pulse against you. When he finally slides inside, millimeter by millimeter, his countenance contorts into an expression that looks like pain. Blue eyes are half-closed, eyelids trembling as he seeks your gaze, attentive to any sign of hesitation. The sight of your surrender makes him want to combust; furrowed brows and an open mouth show the herculean effort to maintain control.

Both of you let out a heavy, shallow breath. An anxiety grows in your chest as you realize how difficult it is to take him, and he’s not even halfway. It should scare you, but my god... there’s something in how he fills you, stretches you, and makes you run even wetter that is just too much. He lets out a low whimper, a sound of pure agony and pleasure. You embrace him tightly, believing he’s reached the limit of physical exhaustion.

But then, the rhythm changes and the truth hits with a shiver of incredulity. As you wrap around his back, you realize those muscles aren't tired; they are rigid as granite, without a single sign of fatigue. He buries his face in your neck and you understand: he isn't trembling because he's reaching the end, but because he's using all his colossal power to stop. What you thought was his limit is actually the effort of a man who could walk through walls, fighting his own nature to be gentle. He definitely scares you and melts you at the same time.

The room starts to spin. The dark-haired man goes painfully slow until he reaches very, very deep. He rests his cock there inside you, closing his eyes and concentrating on how every inch of you is soft and wet around him. He goes back to kissing your neck while tracing his fingers over your swollen clitoris. When you get used to his size, you roll your hips subtly, indicating you're ready.

He starts shallow, slow thrusts, but your thighs tremble every time he reaches the bottom again. His eyes are fixed, hypnotized by the bulge forming in your belly because of him. It’s driving him crazy. He advances a bit more, pulling out almost to the end just to fill you again, starting to have fun with the effect he causes. You whimper, arch, and sigh, giving him the certainty that it’s all okay.

As his restraint shatters, he melts, hungry. Every move sends an electric shock through your spine, leaving you totally hyper-stimulated. His weight over you is crushing; your head spins and your eyes roll back, unable to process the absurd pleasure. You try to babble any response, but words die in failed moans against damp skin.

His gaze doesn't leave your face as he unlocks months of silent torture. You lose yourself completely, drowned in a divine physical sensation, surrendered to a man who decides, finally, to destroy you with pleasure. For the first time, his voice emerges heavy, raspy, and dangerously reckless against your ear. He lets out a short laugh, a vibrating sound that echoes inside your chest.

"Look at you..." he whispers, his breath burning your skin as he penetrates you with a depth that makes you babble. "So beautiful like this, all undone in my arms. I love the way you try to keep your eyes open but simply can't. I love how you tremble just from me being near. You have no idea how good it feels to finally be able to feel you like this, without needing to pretend I’m not dying to break you in half."

He leans in more, his sweat-damp body glued to yours. He bites your earlobe, intensifying the movement.

"You have no idea, my love, but I spent months watching you and counting the seconds to do exactly this. Remember that night on the porch? I had to get away from you because the way you looked at me almost made me take you right there, against the wall. I controlled myself so many times I lost count..."

You try to move your hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds, but he holds it, pinning your wrists again and delighting in how helpless you are beneath him. A wave of pleasure fills your senses as you arch your back, making him hit the exact spot that makes you shed a tear along with a sound you hadn't let out yet.

"Keep going, darling... lose yourself for me. I have all night, and I guarantee I won't tire before I see you begging for every inch I’m still holding back."

You force your eyes to focus, but the sight of him above you is almost offensive. He flashes a smirk, proud and predatory, savoring the fact that you are completely destroyed under him. While blood pulses in your chest, he remains impeccable, without shedding a single drop of sweat.

His fingers get faster and rougher against your clitoris, and you have to beg for a break before you fall apart too soon. Your lips are a red blur, swollen and raw from how much you punished them so as not to scream. Even with him stopped, your jaw fails. Air comes out in hungry spasms. If you try to join your lips now, you know you’ll only moan embarrassingly. It’s humiliating and addictive to feel his fingers like meat-shackles crushing your wrists against the mattress.

But you were always hard to tame. Your passivity dies the moment you find that look of pride. A snap of stubbornness crosses the fog of your mind and, instead of just crumbling, you lock your fingers into his arms, feeling the hardness of granite under your skin. You pull yourself together amidst the chaos, forcing your body to stop just receiving and start fighting back. With a decided arch, you force your hips against his, seeking the deepest possible contact, dictating a new, erratic, and hungry rhythm.

The challenge in your eyes makes the man in front of you growl. In a brute movement, he locks his hands on your waist and kneels on the bed, suspending your hip in the air. He supports your weight with one arm while using the other hand to continue crushing your clitoris, matching the rough and fast pace he’s turned into. Regret burns when you realize he’s turned you into a porcelain doll. He is steady as a rock, pulling you back and forth by the waist with terrifying ease and burying himself back in you with a thrust that makes you lose your voice. With every move, his cock scrapes deep against your cervix, stretching your internal walls that already pulse desperate, soaking his base with the excess lubrication dripping down your thighs.

"What is it, sweetheart? Wasn't it enough? Do you need even more? Is that why you tried to take control?" He asks already knowing the answer, aware of how absurd the provocation is when all you can do now is cling to him while proliferating the lowest curses ever heard.

"Did you think... you were going to be in charge now, darling?" he taunts, his voice failing as he restarts the thrusts, now from a much deeper and more devastating angle. "Try... try to keep up with me now."

"I can't..." you try to beg, but the sentence is interrupted by a sharp scream when his thumb crushes your clitoris with inhuman speed. Your whole body arches, fingers digging into his skin, leaving red marks. "Stop... no, don't stop!"

The dark-haired man lets out a raspy and desperate laugh, forehead pressed to yours, the heat emanating from him merging with your own. He is fascinated by your lack of control. He pulls you into a crushing embrace, pinning your torso against his biceps, and you feel his sweat mix with yours, creating a grip that makes every move heavier and louder. His other hand moves down with cruel precision; his thumb finds your swollen and throbbing clitoris. He crushes it with a speed that makes your body have involuntary spasms. You try to close your legs, try to run from the excess sensitivity, but he keeps you open, forcing you to feel the delicious agony of being stimulated and filled at the same time.

You feel your pussy pulse in frenzied waves, trying to bite his cock with every thrust, while the wet sound of lubrication being beaten between you fills the room. The man over you loses control of his speech; his mouth is open and saliva shines on his lips while he lets out low, guttural groans. He watches as your head hangs back, as your fingers dig into his arm until they leave marks, and the pleasure on his face is almost painful to see. He is discovering that he can break you, and the realization makes him accelerate until the rhythm becomes a blur of flesh and heat.

He pins you against his chest with the arm that supports you, crushing your breasts against his rigid torso in a sort of possessive embrace. Every nerve in your pussy burns with pleasure, the walls contracting in spasms trying to suck every inch of him inside. The dark-haired man is losing his head. His face is transformed; blue eyes seem to roll back, neck veins pop, and breath comes in short yelps. He can no longer form coherent sentences.

"So... so... tight..." he babbles, his tongue locking while his speed becomes inhuman. He lets out a low growl and, in a move of pure urgency, changes the dynamic again. He lays you down hard, sinking your back...

He lets out a low growl and, in a move of pure urgency, changes the dynamic again. He pins you down hard, sinking your back into the sheets and pressing your knees against your chest, a position that leaves you completely vulnerable and wide open. His weight over you is crushing in a delicious way, and when he buries himself again, the thrust is so long and deep that you feel the air escape your lungs. His cock slides the entire length of your canal, stretching the inner walls that already pulse and burn from so much sensitivity, hitting the bottom with an impact that makes you arch your back instantly.

He locks his arms beside your head, his biceps bulging and rigid as stone, while using his hips to press you against the mattress, seeking maximum friction between his base and your swollen clitoris.

"I can't... I can't... be gentle..." — he pants against your mouth, his voice failing as he loses himself in the sensation of being sucked in by you. "You're so warm... it hurts so much... how much I need this."

You feel every inch of his thickness mapping your interior, a raw pressure that makes you let out short, stuttered moans, your voice already raspy from shouting his name. His gaze is glazed, his mouth half-open letting out sounds you never imagined hearing from him as he withdraws almost entirely, only to launch himself back into you with everything. You stop just receiving, refusing to accept the trance, and pull Clark by the nape of his neck, forcing a clumsy and urgent kiss, mixing saliva and short breaths. You lock your legs around his lower back, eliminating any millimeter of space. There is no longer any way to escape the impact; he is hitting deep, stretching everything, and the sound that comes from your throat is a sharp gasp of someone who has lost control of their own breath. You open your mouth to ask for more, to tell him how much you love him, but the sound doesn't come.

Your throat locks; the air simply doesn't reach your vocal cords. You try to articulate his name, try to say you're reaching the peak, but you can only let out failed and stuttered pants. Clark notices your struggle. He sees the desperation in your eyes and the way you try to speak without success, and his gaze becomes something you've never seen before: a mixture of deep adoration and absolute hunger. He understands exactly what your body is begging for.

Instead of backing away, Clark wraps you in a crushing embrace, pinning his chest to yours and holding you against the mattress with a sacred firmness. He takes you in entirely, his large hands splayed on your back, keeping you joined to him as his rhythm becomes fierce. The wet sound of friction between your parts fills the room, a raw sound that accompanies his whimpering breath in your ear.

"Come for me..." — he whispers, his voice raspy, without any politeness, feeling how your interior is tight and boiling around him.

You feel the accumulated pressure overflow. Your head hangs back and you surrender, your body arching in a tense curve as the orgasm tears through you. You try to scream, but the sound dies in a sob against his shoulder. Clark feels your spasms, feels you come apart against him, and that finishes off whatever bit of control he still had.

He delivers the final thrusts, blind and deep, burying himself to the maximum limit before locking. The muscles in his back bulge, rigid as granite under your fingers, and he lets out a long groan of pure relief. You feel his hot and abundant jet flood your depths, a rhythmic and invasive pulse that seems to last an eternity, sealing that moment of lust and total surrender.

He remains there, heavy and motionless over you, his face hidden in your neck, protecting you from the world outside while the heat of both of you continues to flow, proving that now, finally, you are one. The silence that follows is thick, filled only by the sound of breaths trying, slowly, to regain their rhythm. Clark doesn't move immediately; he seems to savor the weight of the moment, keeping his face hidden in the curve of your neck while leaving a few chaste and damp kisses there, as if he were thanking you in silence.

Slowly, he props himself up on his elbows so as not to crush you, but without breaking contact. Your hands move up his back, caressing the tired muscles with a lingering affection, moving down to the nape of his neck where his hair is damp with sweat. You hold him tightly, welcoming him, making it clear that he is safe there.

When he finally pulls away, Clark looks at you with a shyness you’ve never seen before. His blue eyes are shining, a little wet, and he looks almost dazzled, as if waking up from a dream.

He watches you with an adoration bordering on the sacred. "I was so afraid of... of not being what you expected. Of hurting you."

You let out a sweet laugh and caress his face, kissing the tip of the dark-haired man's nose.

"It was perfect, Clark. It was better than anything."

He smiles, a relieved and genuine smile that lights up his face. With extreme care, he withdraws and pulls you to the center of the bed, delicately wiping away a tear that escaped your face with his thumb. He wraps you in a spooning embrace, his broad chest pressed against your back, his arms surrounding you as if he were your personal shield. He doesn't stop touching you; there are small kisses on your shoulders, slow caresses on your arms, small gestures from someone who is marveled by the physical proximity. Clark buries his face in your hair and lets out a sigh of pure peace.

"Thank you for being the first," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "I'm glad it was you. I didn't want it to be anyone else in the world."

He pulls you a little closer, ensuring you're warm under the duvet, and remains there, in vigil, watching over your sleep as his heart finally finds the rhythm of yours.

[obsessedromancereader]

[hiddinginmyroom]

me with you guys (yes you) simping over hot men

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[k1tk4ttt]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[sunsburns]

imagine trying to keep up with clark 🤯 (18+)

clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.

and he always does.

he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.

he always tells you that you do. “perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.

it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.

you know what he’s doing in there.

and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.

once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.

but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.

“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

no, you need to be the one.

you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.

you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.

you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.

“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.

his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.

you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.

you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.

his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.

he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.

in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.

the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.

he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.

it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.

but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.

you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.

“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”

you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.

he looks utterly wrecked.

his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.

he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.

then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.

his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.

his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”

“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”

you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.

“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.

“fuck, please—”

“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”

“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.

he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”

clark kent is completely undone.

[kisakisabby]

trying not to ruin him ⋆｡˚

pairing(s): clark kent x fem!reader

summary: what starts as a normal night quickly gets harder to manage. clark gentle, careful and always seeming too innocent… and you, trying not to let your thoughts show, especially after a few drinks (or) you think Clark doesn't make sexual advances towards you because he's too innocent, but you have no idea how much he's been holding back for you with fear of not being able to control his strength

content: 18+, fluff, virginity, first time, dirty thoughts, sexual tension, shy reader, nerdy clark authors note: yay, first smut fic written! i really hope it's good (english isn't my first language!!). also, I decided to split this fic into two parts because of its length; this first part doesn't contain any explicit content yet.

even after all this time knowing clark, you still can’t help the way he completely gets to you. it’s frustrating in the worst way, mostly because of how effortless it is for him. like he genuinely has no idea how he looks, or what he does to you.

even after months of being his friend, and now, finally, his girlfriend, you still blush, still feel your stomach twist when you catch him like this, walking out of gym class. the tank top, his hair still damp, the fabric clinging just slightly to his skin. it’s enough to send your thoughts somewhere you really shouldn’t let them go. you try not to stare, you really do, but you always end up giving in just a little, because of how easily he affects you.

those eyes, too clear, too soft, looking at you without a hint of anything behind them. it’s disarming, almost irritating, how hard it is to focus on anything when he looks at you like that, like you’re the only thing he’s paying attention to.

“hey,” he says, smiling as he walks up, still a little out of breath.

you answer automatically, not even sure what you said. honestly, how are you supposed to focus on anything when your tall, slightly flushed boyfriend is standing right in front of you like this? right there, tugging at the hem of his tank top to fan himself, completely unaware of what that does to you. for a second, you see it, quick and barely anything, but enough. a strip of skin, his stomach tensing slightly as he takes a deeper breath, and that’s it.

you freeze for just a second too long, heat rushing up your face like someone might have noticed, even though it’s just your own mind. “have you been waiting long?” he asks, a small crease forming between his brows as he studies you, picking up on something being off. you look away for a second, pretending to think, but really you just need to stop looking at him like that. “no… i just got here,” you say, trying to sound normal.

he smiles, easy as ever, satisfied with whatever you give him, then steps a little closer, and now you can actually feel the warmth coming off him, which only makes everything worse. “we’re still going out later, right?” he asks, hand brushing the back of his neck. you nod, and then the final bell rings, pulling you both apart for now.

and that’s when the guilt hits. because clark is pure, or at least he seems like it. too gentle, too calm, almost innocent in a way that makes everything going on in your head feel wrong. you haven’t gone there yet, nothing beyond a few longer kisses that leave you dizzy for hours after, but clark never pushes past that. never takes it further. and you don’t want to be the one who does.

there’s something about the way he is, the care, the hesitation, that makes you hold back too. you’d rather wait, let it come from him, even when your thoughts drift too far. maybe because you know what it’s like when it doesn’t. your first time was awful, dragged out until you stopped saying no just to get it over with.

with clark, it doesn’t feel like something you’d have to endure. for the first time, it feels like something that could actually be good. and even if you don’t want to admit it, the idea of being the one to pull him into that world first, to see that softness shift, to get reactions out of him he doesn’t even know how to show yet, lingers in your mind in a way that’s hard to ignore.

and it feels wrong. so wrong.

here you are, waiting for him outside the school like always, ready to go out and enjoy your friday night together. the moment he sees you, he comes straight over, like he always does. you barely have time to react before the kiss — quick, but firm enough to throw you off for a second. along with it, his hands slide down to your hips with too much ease, settling there like that’s exactly where they belong.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, still close, still with his arms around you, in no rush to let go. you meet that soft, easy smile on his face… like he didn’t just mess you up completely.

“you okay?” he asks, innocent, brows knitting slightly when he catches you staring. again.

ironic.

usually you’re the one questioning his silences, the way he stares, all that typical farmboy awkwardness. but lately… it’s been getting harder and harder to hide this.

“yeah,” you answer too quickly, already trying to pull yourself together. “just excited for our date.”

he accepts it without a second thought, his smile coming back like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. then he laces his fingers with yours, just like that.

as you leave the school, your eyes drift over the familiar streets while he talks about his day — the same roads, the same yellow streetlights flickering on as the sun dips behind the fields, the cool night air settling in slowly, carrying the smell of damp earth and grass. you walk beside him, matching his pace, trying not to pay too much attention to the way his arm brushes yours every now and then.

“we always go to the talon,” he says suddenly, looking ahead, a little thoughtful. “i thought maybe… we could change it up tonight.”

you look at him immediately. “change how?”

“it’s nothing big…” he shrugs, but doesn’t quite hold your gaze, like he doesn’t want it to seem like he thought too much about it.

that alone is enough to make you curious. clark isn’t the type to change things. he likes what’s familiar, what’s safe. so the fact that he wants to take you somewhere else… already says more than he probably meant to.

“i passed by a café the other day,” he continues, a little slower now, hand briefly going to his hair like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “and i remembered something you said… about a tea you liked and couldn’t find anywhere.”

you look at him instantly.

he notices, hesitates for just a second before going on, like he suddenly feels a little too exposed: “i don’t know if it’s exactly the same, but it looked similar. so i thought… it might be nice to bring you there.”

you go quiet for a moment, a little surprised. “you remembered that?” you ask, looking at him.

clark gives a small, almost shy smile, glancing away before looking back. “i did.”

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “i don’t even remember saying that, it was so long ago.”

“you did,” he replies, almost under his breath, still with that light tone like he doesn’t want to make it sound like a big deal… even though it is.

as soon as you walk in, you like it. instantly.

it’s not the talon. it’s not too bright, not too loud. it’s dim, warm, a little tucked away, like no one there is in a hurry to leave. you notice that before anything else… and then you notice him watching you, waiting for your reaction, a little tense for no real reason.

“do you like it?” clark asks, quietly.

and you do. you like the effort, the care, the fact that he thought of you just passing by somewhere random. that alone would’ve been enough to get to you, but then he pulls out your chair, his hand brushing your waist just to guide you, and that’s it. your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

you sit, trying to look normal, but you’re suddenly too aware of everything, how close he is, the way he leans forward when he sits across from you, how his eyes go straight back to yours like there’s nothing else there.

“what are you getting?” he asks, leaning in a little more to hear you better.

you pick a drink quickly, barely looking, just to have something to do with your hands before they give you away. clark doesn’t question it.

the first sip goes down easier than you expected. sweet enough to trick you, strong enough to warm you up fast. you even smile a little, more relaxed, resting your elbow on the table while you absentmindedly stir the straw.

“it’s good.”

clark watches, oddly satisfied by that for a reason you don’t quite get.

the waiter comes back before you can say anything else. “and for you?” he asks, looking at clark.

“a virgin mojito,” he answers without much hesitation, then glances at you. “and… could you bring that tea, please?” he adds, pointing at it on the menu, not even trying to pronounce the name.

the waiter nods and leaves, and for a second it’s just the two of you again, the table suddenly feeling too small for the distance you’re trying to keep in your head.

“what did it taste like again?” clark asks, resting his arm on the table, more relaxed now.

“cinnamon with orange… or lemon, i don’t really remember,” you say, taking another sip. “it’s kind of warm, kind of sweet. weird, but good.”

“i wanna try it,” he says, simple. “see if you’re exaggerating.”

you let out a soft laugh. “you wanna try mine too?” you ask, already sliding your glass toward him before he answers. he takes it, of course. brings it to his lips without thinking much, and you watch — more than you should — until he hands it back. your fingers brush in the middle, lingering a second longer than necessary. small, but not nothing.

“it is good,” he says, quieter, still close.

when you look up, you catch it. quick. almost nothing. but you catch it. his gaze dropping for a second, landing where it shouldn’t, before coming back up to your eyes like nothing happened.

except it did. and for once, it wasn’t you.

the taste of your drink still lingers when he looks away, like he needs a second to reset. you notice. he clears his throat softly, shifts in his seat. you don’t say anything. but you don’t help either. you lean forward a little more, less careful now, your strap slipping just slightly — and you don’t fix it right away. your eyes go back to him, almost challenging, curious to see what he’ll do with it. clark tries to keep talking.

“i think my mom would like that tea,” he says, a bit off rhythm, like he grabbed the first safe thought he could. “she likes those different blends.”

“does she?” you answer, distracted, not really engaging.

it’s not just the look. it’s the fact that he tried not to. you let out a softer, looser laugh this time. “then she has good taste,” you say, idly spinning the straw, though you’re not really paying attention to it. your eyes stay on him.

clark holds your gaze, but not like before. he’s more aware now — not exactly of what, but enough to notice. how long you’re looking, how you’re not pulling back, how you’re just… not holding yourself together the same way.

“you’re different,” he says simply, careful as always.

you could deny it. you usually would.

but now it comes too easily.

“different good?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, still watching him.

“yeah,” he says after a short pause. “different good.”

that stays with you. longer than it should.

because you start wondering if he’s ever looked at you like this before and you just missed it. if all this time, he’s been holding back too. the smile doesn’t leave your face, even when you try to hide it. there’s a light, almost silly excitement building, just at the thought that maybe, at some point, he’s thought about you the same way you think about him.

you wish you hadn’t spent so long like this, so stuck in your own head. it’s not that you don’t feel things — you feel everything. you just never let it turn into action. being quiet always came with that downside. either you go unnoticed, or people think they can push too far. and knowing you’re not exactly hard to look at… it’s usually the second.

but with clark, it’s different.

he never pushes, never crosses a line, never makes you feel small. he remembers the smallest details, always makes you feel seen. maybe that’s why he’s never tried to go further. maybe you’re just reading too much into it… but it feels good to believe otherwise.

maybe it’s not lack of want. maybe it’s care.

maybe you’re more alike than you thought.

the tea arrives soon after, and you notice it before you even taste it. the smell.

your body reacts immediately, like it pulled a memory out without asking. you pick up the cup more carefully than needed, bringing it closer just to be sure. the first sip brings a different kind of warmth . something familiar, something that feels like home in a way you haven’t felt in too long. simple, but enough to tighten something in your chest. you swallow slowly, breathing out, and when you look at him again, your eyes are a little brighter.

“clark…” you let out a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. “it’s the same. seriously, it’s really the same.”

you take another sip, quicker this time, like you need to be sure again, and sigh softly, genuinely pleased. “i can’t believe you found this.”

he doesn’t even try to hide it now. the smile comes easy.

“i wasn’t sure,” he admits quietly, a little shy but clearly happy. “but i thought it was worth trying.”

you laugh again, softer, and lean in without thinking, kissing him quickly but with intention, that leftover warmth still there. “thank you,” you murmur, still close.

by your third drink, the pink fading into yellow under the dim lights, you’re looser, lighter, like the night finally settled into place.

the time slips by between shared laughs and lingering looks, and little by little, words become harder to form. clark notices it slowly, almost without meaning to. it’s nothing dramatic, just… you, lighter somehow. your laughter comes too easily, and you hold his gaze a second longer than usual, like you suddenly have the nerve to stay where you used to look away. he doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, his smile shows up faster, almost amused by the way you’re letting go. but there’s something else there too. too much attention. too much care. and that’s why, before you even finish your second mojito, he makes a quiet decision. “i think we should go,” he says lightly, like it’s nothing, already getting up with you.

outside, he confirms it. “god… i didn’t realize you got like this so fast,” he says, holding back a laugh, his hand firm on your waist as you start walking. “i’m not even drunk,” you shoot back immediately, but you can’t really commit to the defense, laughing with him anyway. clark just shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go. when you stumble slightly, his hand tightens at your waist and pulls you back against him, fitting you there like it’s automatic. not just to help. and you feel that.

the street is quiet, the smell of rain still in the air, the cold brushing your skin… but none of that really holds your attention. it’s him. his arm sliding over your shoulders, covering you with his jacket, pulling you closer without thinking twice. and he doesn’t pull away after. doesn’t correct it. doesn’t create space. you stay there, pressed to him, feeling the heat of his body bleed through the fabric too easily. warm in a way that feels wrong, constant, almost addictive. your head rests against his chest for a second, and you realize how solid he is, how easy it would be to lose yourself there if you let it happen. and your mind goes. too fast. to the way he pulled you in without effort, the firmness of his hand at your waist, how he doesn’t even seem to realize what that does to you. or maybe he does now. maybe he’s starting to.

you lift your face slowly, looking at him without rushing this time. and you don’t look away. clark holds your gaze like he always has. but something’s different now. more aware. more caught. his eyes drop for a second, quick, like they’re tracking every small movement you make before coming back to yours. and that only makes it worse. because your head fills with things you’ve never let yourself think all the way through. the way his grip might lose its restraint, turn firmer. the way he could pull you even closer if he wanted to. how much he seems to hold that back all the time… and what would happen if he stopped.

you lean in just a little more, testing it, and feel his body react immediately. his hand tightens at your waist. not much. but enough. “you’re taking advantage of me helping you,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than before, his gaze still locked on yours. it’s not a question. and you don’t deny it. you just stay there, too close, letting him feel exactly what you’re no longer trying to hide.

you grab his shirt without really realizing when you decided to do it, and you kiss him. there’s no care, none of that usual adjustment. your mouth meets his already pressing, already wanting more, like you’re done holding back. clark responds the way he always does, like it’s natural, like it’s just another kiss between you. his hand still firm on your waist, his body fitting against yours without effort, without hesitation, like it’s simple. but you don’t keep it that way. you move closer, your body fully against his, and deepen it without softening. your mouth lingers, pulls his with it, not letting him keep that calm rhythm he always falls into.

you feel the way his breath stutters against your mouth, the way his hand tightens harder at your waist, pulling you back when you were already too close for that to make sense. your thoughts make it worse. how strong he is. how easily he could hold you there without even trying. the heat of his body, constant, strange, too good against yours. and the way he’s never done anything with that, never pushed, never crossed the line. you want to see how far it goes. and you answer that without thinking. you press closer. pull him back in when he tries to breathe. fit yourself against him like you already know where you want to be.

clark feels it. this time, immediately. the kiss shifts completely, slower, heavier, fuller. it’s not automatic anymore. he’s there, present, responding to you. his hand tightens again, firm now, keeping you exactly where you put yourself. that carefulness is gone. and he doesn’t pull away. not when he pauses for a second, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing more uneven than you’ve ever heard it. not when he looks at you again. because he understands. finally, he understands where you’re trying to take this.

“you don’t usually…” he starts, his voice lower, but it falters when he feels your hand still there, in no hurry to move. you tilt your head, looking at him in a way that’s almost too innocent for what you’re doing. “don’t usually what?” your tone is light, but your body doesn’t match it. you stay close, close enough for him to feel your scent, your breath brushing his when you speak. clark looks away for a second, running a hand over the back of his neck like he needs to steady himself. “it’s late,” he says, trying to bring back some control, even while his hand stays on your waist. “i should take you home.”

you let out a soft, short laugh, leaning into him a little more like that’s answer enough. “you’re such a buzzkill,” you murmur, looking straight at his mouth before lifting your gaze back to his eyes. he draws in a small breath. you notice. of course you do. and you use it. you move closer again, your hand sliding up his chest like it’s absentminded, but it isn’t. your fingers pause there, feeling, while your voice drops, quieter, like it’s just for him. “i could stay at your place tonight…”

it’s not really a question. your smile gives that away. soft, almost sweet, but with too much intent behind it. you hold his gaze, unhurried, letting him sit with what you just placed between you. clark doesn’t answer right away. his eyes stay on you, dropping for a second before coming back, like he’s trying to stay where he should… and slipping a little. “that’s not a good idea,” he says, but his voice doesn’t come out as steady as it should.

you catch it immediately. of course you do. and you move closer again. your body presses to his, slow, unhurried, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your hand moves up his shirt this time, not stopping, feeling through the fabric as you tilt your head slightly, letting your lips brush along his jaw. light. but far too deliberate to be accidental. his breathing catches. you feel it. and you keep going.

“why?” you ask softly, near his ear now, your voice almost a whisper, warm against his skin. clark closes his eyes for a brief second, his hand tightening at your waist like that might help him stay grounded. “because…” he starts, but doesn’t finish. not when you lean in again, slower this time, letting your mouth graze lightly along his neck, feeling the reaction before you even pull back.

his whole body responds. a quick shiver. his breathing turning heavier. and his hand firm on you, holding you there, not pushing you away. you smile. you don’t hide it. your hand drifts a little further, slow, while you lift your gaze back to his like you’re just… waiting. “i just want to stay over tonight,” you say, but the way you say it doesn’t help your case at all.

clark exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to gather his thoughts while still keeping you close. he knows. he knows exactly what you’re doing. and he still doesn’t step back. his gaze returns to you, heavier now, caught between holding back and giving in, and it shows in how long he takes to answer. “...okay,” he says finally, quieter than before.

[kisakisabby]

Harder than Combat

PAIRING — nicholas slovacek x fem!reader

CHAPTER — Oneshot

POV — second person point of view

CONTENT — enemies to lovers

SYNOPSIS —the marine corps opens its first mixed-gender trial, bringing dozens of women into a space that was always his.

You arrive before the sun, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, paperwork wrinkled in your hand.

The gate looms too high to feel like an invitation. Inside, the yard is already awake. Men in loose groups, stretching, murmuring, laughing low. Routine confidence.

The noise thins when they notice you. Not instantly. Collectively. Heads turn. Stares linger a beat too long. The question hangs heavy: what are you doing here?

No one talks to you. No one needs to. The space shifts subtly, bodies adjusting as if you’re an obstacle that wasn’t accounted for. Someone exhales through his nose. Someone mutters something you don’t hear but understand. When you take your place at the edge of the formation, you realize there’s a fraction of space left around you. Not exclusion. A warning.

That’s when you see him. He doesn’t laugh or whisper. He watches with a slight frown, like he’s staring at a miscalculation. Not curiosity. Annoyance. As if you slipped through a system that wasn’t built for you.

You’re not the only woman. At least eight of you are scattered across the yard. Some stand too rigid, overcorrecting. Others can’t hide the tension in their hands. Two whisper too loudly. One fixes her hair like she hasn’t crossed over yet. You don’t form a unit. There is no “us.” Just shared exposure.

– Starting today – the instructor says – you are not special. You are not exceptions. You are numbers. And numbers break easily.He walks the line, lingering near the women without pretending otherwise. One drops her gaze and gets corrected instantly, a shout exploding inches from her face. You don’t move. You already understand what reaction costs here.

Then a name cuts the air.– Slovacek.

He steps forward immediately. Posture sharp. Response clean. The instructor doesn’t explain why he’s the example. He doesn’t need to. When Slovacek steps back, his eyes pass over you. Quick. Measuring.

– First trial in five minutes. Timed run. Anyone who falls behind learns the hard way.

The yard tightens. Shoulders square. Breathing sharpens. You retie your laces once. You don’t look at him.At the line, he stands perfectly still. No stretching. No glancing sideways. Only when everyone settles does he turn his head. Your eyes meet for half a second. No challenge. Just a slight tension in his jaw, like something didn’t go according to plan.

The whistle snaps.You launch forward together, boots striking nearly the same rhythm. In the first stretch, neither of you pushes. Too early. The yard blurs. All that exists is the steady presence beside you. You don’t need to look to know he’s there.At the first turn, he edges half a step ahead. Not an attack. A marker. You match without burning fuel. When he adjusts pace, you adjust too. No words. Just calibration.Others begin to fade. You don’t.In the final stretch, he pushes. You answer with precision. The finish is too close to matter.

You slow just long enough to breathe. He straightens immediately. No celebration. But his attention slides to you anyway, controlled, confirming.

Times are called. Yours. Then his. Close.

As the line reforms, he passes you. No contact. Just enough of a tilt to let it fall low.

– This isn’t over.

You don’t answer.

Because now he knows your name.

And you know you’ve become a reference.

[kisakisabby]

i hate being bipolar. and i love being bipolar.

it’s like living inside a body that claws at me from the inside,

yet still gives me the only light i recognize as mine.

sometimes my head feels like a locked room where everything happens too fast.

i snap over nothing, my hands shake, my chest throbs like a trapped animal flapping its wings against my ribs.

and i hate it.

i hate looking unstable, dramatic,

cracked in all the wrong places.

but there’s another side no one sees.

the world has secret seams and i’m the only one who ever puts an eye through them. it gives me this impossible empathy — so sharp it aches.

and i know it’s distortion.

i know my brain invents monsters in the folds of people.

but it also invents beauty no one else ever notices. and that’s the part i don’t want to lose.the part that makes me look at a human being and think:god, how can something be so fragile and so brutal at the same time?

[stupid-twink-girl]

doodled an extra shitty comic cuz i didn’t feel like spending time drawing lol

[bearsockz]

Just got my makeship plush today. Showing it a good time

[mils-666]

<3

[skulsakz]

by bart hess

[centtury]

[maniccherrygirl]

[sabertoothwalrus]

I see lots of pretty art of transmascs highlighting their scars, but I often forget that even though I'm not transmasc, I have those scars too! I don't think I've ever seen art of someone with breast reduction scars?? so I took it upon myself to make something! :)